Blinding Dusk
by baby supernova
Summary: How to describe Percy Jackson? He's got a few bolts loose. He's probably the most unorganized person I know. He really, really will get himself killed, if he's not careful. And, he's a son of Poseidon. T for mild language and themes.   PERCY/OC
1. Introduction

Percy Jackson.

Well, what _is _there to say about the boy? Seventeen years of age, tall and lanky, casual kid. Dyslexic, restless, bully magnet, unathletic, and not too bright as well. Apparently enjoys swimming, fighting people (though, this is a small mystery to me, because I don't believe he could ever win a fistfight), and, strangely enough, blue colored food.

Weird.

That's probably the best, most gentle term you could use on someone like that. It's like he literally lives in his own little world. The scariest part is, he knows it. Is that how all crazy people are like?

I'll admit though, I hadn't known Percy until the fateful day we collided. Literally. Not by some sort of street accident either, but by some freak explosion that I don't recall being anything remotely close to ordinary. It was a pretty normal day for me, actually, until the whole place blew up, and this particular boy flies straight to me and knocks me flat on the ground. But, hey, if he hadn't, I would have been fried to charcoal.

Yeah, he saved my life.

But there's really just something different about this kid. Yeah, okay, I know I said he was weird, but I didn't say I hated him for it. In fact, I think it's pretty cool. Everyone's a little weird sometimes – he just kind of makes up for the other part of us that isn't.

How to describe Percy Jackson? He's got a few bolts loose. He's probably the most unorganized person I know. He really, _really_ will get himself killed, if he's not careful.

And, he's a son of Poseidon.


	2. Chapter 1

Normal.

It's what I thought my day would be. Normal, at least, for my standards - waking up in a new city, driving around to a parking lot that leads to the backstage of some theatre or coliseum, surviving the chaos of three boys in a dressing room, tuning my guitar, then going crazy onstage with around twenty thousand other wild kids. It's a great routine, especially because it's more or less done on a daily basis. Yeah, it can get tiring, but, really, what doesn't? I'm just glad I'm still in one piece, you know?

It actually starts off like it would be a pretty same-old-same-old morning. I wake up on a nice, white bed that smells like flowers and washing powder. The sun is really warm on my back, but it feels okay, because the entire hotel room is all but freezing over. I kick off the sheets and examine the surroundings I failed to observe the night before, having fallen face down onto the cushion in the dark to submit to sleep. Polished desk. Couch with a glass coffee table. Cabinet television. Bedside drawers, where my phone lies, drained of battery. Oh well. At least the place is pretty.

I stand up, and walk over to the window. The seemingly familiar streets of New York City snake way, way down below me. Cars stuck in mid-morning traffic. People in ugly pinstripe suits hurrying into tall glass buildings. Slender, tan girls walking their dogs, chatting on their cells. It looks like home, except a lot busier.

I know we'll be playing a show at Nokia Theatre later, then an acoustic set at Hot Topic New York tomorrow to promote our upcoming album. Little did I know I'd barely make it through tonight, much less show up at tomorrow's performance. But I go through the monotonous process of brushing my teeth and taking a shower, changing out of my pajamas and heading down to see what was for breakfast. What greets me was a fancy buffet table, and the familiar faces of my bandmates and Drew, our tour manager. Even if it was so tempting not to, I force myself to wait for my food and head over to the table where they sit, picking at their food.

"Good morning." I greet, though it seems as though they had a rough twelve hours prior. Only Matt, chipper boy as always, says hello back. Not even Drew, who is supposed to be in charge of keeping us more or less alive, looks like he was ready to open his eyes, much less face the day. "What's going on?"

"Oh, you missed it." Matt says, biting off a piece of toast. "Party last night. _Huge_. They're all just hungover, but don't worry, it'll pass. Eventually."

"You guys partied?" I ask, confused. "Don't you guys every get tired of like... I don't know. Dancing and drinking?"

Well, what else _do_ you do at a party?

"Could you not talk so loud, please?" Jace all but yells at me. I raise my eyebrows. "And don't be all bitter, just because you weren't invited."

"Mmhmm." Ritchie agrees, a little dumbly for my taste. He's usually the more sensible one, but he actually looks the most wasted out of all of them. I think he might even seem a bit stoned, but maybe it's just the fact that his eyes are rolling back into his head every five seconds or so.

"Well, I didn't spend my evening crying in my room about it, if that's what you mean." I frown. "And you," I point at Drew, who's struggling to keep himself awake, "Weren't you supposed to be responsible for preventing a bunch of seventeen year-olds from getting drunk?"

"Relax." Is all he can say, before falling asleep on me. Great. Jace, who is supposed to be singing for us, is completely out of it. God knows what he would slur out to the crowd tonight. And Ritchie, who is meant to be carrying lead guitar, is half-dead, I think. And Drew, who was _supposed_ to stop them from doing this, actually went along. Guys are such idiots.

"Guys, wake up." I say, slightly irritated. "_Wake up_."

"Shut up, Tori." Jace snaps. More like warbles in a really annoyed voice, but it isn't amusing.

"You can't all be drunk at tonight's show, we'll be banned from New York." I argue. I'm not sure if this is true. But if they're really wasted, then I suppose now is the time to stretch bits of information to my advantage. However, this doesn't work.

"No one bans you from being a rockstar, stupid." I don't like how Jace is calling me stupid, even if his nervous system is already failing him.

"They'll ban you for underage drinking."

"Yeah, and then they're going to give me a slip and tell me not to do it again." He rolls his eyes. "Get real."

I look at Matt, asking for help. He looks like he doesn't want to get involved in this, especially because he shares rooms with Jace. "Uh, guys, I think we really actually should get going. I mean, we have some press thing going on later this afternoon, right Drew?" He elbows our tour manager, who grunts and says something I don't catch. "So there."

Way to conclude a rally.

"Drew!" I slam my fist on the breakfast table, and he nearly jumps out of his skin, yelling something obscene.

"Can you please not shout?" He points at his temple, like it's so obvious. "Migrane."

"No. Hangover. Which you must _get over_." I plead. "Wake up and do something about this. _Please_."

He stares at my eyes, like he's trying to assess whether or not it's worth it to try to overcome this hangover. Just when I think he's going to pass out on me completely, he nods once (I think it's all he can manage without having his head snap off his neck), and stands.

"Wake up guys." He shakes their shoulders. "Get up. Time for a cold shower."

It takes time to haul the two boys up - in the end, Drew has to drunkenly drag Ritchie to the elevator. While they're walking away, Jace gives me some sort of unhappy, sort of annoyed face that would usually shut me up on his bad mood days. But this morning, his eyes are red and puffy and his pupils are almost nonexistent, and his nose is the shade of cherry and his mouth is more or less falling off his face. I can't take him seriously. It's all I can do not to laugh.

Matt settles back down on his chair and continues to shovel eggs and toast into his mouth. I notice he's the only one who has absolutely no visible symptoms of alcohol in his system. He's also obviously waiting for me to ask, so I do.

"Did you go to the party with them last night?" I wonder.

"Yeah, of course." He shrugs nonchalantly.

"Did you drink?"

"Yes. Sorry about that, mom."

"Then how come you don't look drunk?" I ask frankly.

"Oh, that's the best part." He downs a steaming cup of coffee before answering me. "I met a girl last night."

"Oh, ew." I wrinkle my nose.

"You don't want to know what happened?"

"Ah, no thanks. You can keep that part to yourself. But nice to know." I wave him away, picking up my plate and walking to the buffet table. He leans back and shrugs again.

"Have it your way."

* * *

At the end of the day, we get through without having people ask us too many questions. Jace keeps most of his answers to the press short and sweet, except he sort of zones out at times when the questions are too long, or when the cameras are fazing him out. Matt usually has to nudge him, but I don't think it's that noticeable. Ritchie is staying quiet today, which might give it away, seeing as they're the Alex Gaskarth/Jack Barakat type that carries a really long, idiotic conversation when no one has anything else to say. But people don't pry, so we don't say.

We meet the kids who are coming to the show an hour prior, which is probably the second most interesting thing that happens to me today. Loads of girls, fourteen or fifteen years of age, in short shorts and neon tank tops, come up to Jace and tell him they want to marry him and have his kids. They take a couple of really touchy-feely pictures. Slip him their cell numbers, making him promise to call them.

Nothing new.

CDs and posters are being passed along, and my wrist is starting to hurt from writing my signature over and over again. Thankfully, I'm next to Matt, who keeps me entertained by cracking a couple of corny jokes every now and then. Jace, however, is on my left, and I can hear every word he is and isn't exchanging with the hormonal kids. He sounds weary, and I don't blame him, because his face and upper torso are usually the ones that appear on magazines, ogled at by various females of various ages (a disturbing fact, especially for a seventeen year old). These girls are holding up the line, and Jace is running out of places to throw their numbers away. So he gives them to me.

"I don't want that." I say in disgust when he crumples them into a paper ball and tries to put it in my fist.

"Make new friends, you need them." He mutters as another girl asks him to sign her bra.

I feel bad for him sometimes, because he's obviously bothered, and because he probably keeps thinking of his girlfriend back home in Chicago. However, in order for him to stay polite and not crush the dreams of young teens, he has to accept them. But I don't want to be the one texting his countless fiancees.

But the ball of paper is in my hands. I lob it behind me, not caring where it falls. Matt punches my arm and says, "You could have given it to me."

"I don't want you to turn into a pedophile." I mumble. He chuckles.

It goes on for another half hour, with nothing coming up more eventful than someone telling me she used the same shampoo and conditioner as I did. Not that I recall ever mentioning that in public, but who knows what comes out of my mouth when I'm only half-paying attention? Only when Matt taps my arm with the end of his Sharpie do I snap out of my stupor.

"Don't look now, but," he eyes something to the far left of the tent, and I fight my instinct to immediately turn and stare, "Tall blonde male staring at you."

At first I think he's kidding me, because Jace is tall and blonde and male (more or less), but he looks a little serious. Slowly, my eyes first, then my head, I turn to look at what Matt is indicating. And he's right. There's a guy leaning on the post, wearing shades and an Eight Track shirt that just came out a couple of weeks ago. His arms are crossed over his chest, but he's smirking, like he's amused. He looks my age as well.

"Weird." I avert my eyes, then sign across my face on someone's poster.

"What's weird about it?" Matt asks, as I slide him the poster. "He's a guy. You're a girl. You hook up and then-"

"Shut up." I hiss, grossed out. But I look again. And this time, the dude waves. _Really_ creepy. So, again, I look away.

"Do you know each other? You look like you do." Matt wonders, but he's not looking, engrossed in signing his name. "But I doubt it. Maybe he's someone's brother."

"Maybe." But no one goes back down the line to approach him. Once they reach Matt, they say thank you, nice to meet you, then take their posters and CDs and leave. For the last time, I turn to see if he's still looking.

But he's gone.

"Weird. Really weird." I mutter. Matt shrugs and tells me the guy's probably just here to watch a show. Which is really possible, so I let it go.

Drew comes along at around that time, telling us that we're wrapping the meet and greet up. A hoard of girls assault Jace with their numbers and cameras, for last minute chances before the show. Matt, Ritchie and I are escorted out the tent, into Nokia Theatre's backstage. We enter the dressing room they've designated for us, and I call the bathroom as soon as the door closes.

"Why do you always get the bathroom?" Ritchie sighs. I feel like he wants to lock himself up in there and pass out, but I don't mention this.

"Because I'm a girl." I reason out, like this is obvious. And it is. I've established it ever since the first tour we'd gone on.

"That's what you use for everything."

"Because it applies to anything." I say with finality, and Ritchie waves me away. I walk into the bathroom and shut the door.

Ten minutes later, I'm stepping out of the bathroom, and I see that the guys have already messed up the room beyond belief. Jace is trying to fix his mess of hair, and Matt is walking around shirtless, drumming on any surface that won't shatter into pieces. Ritchie is on the couch, his guitar close to his chest, asleep.

"Five minutes." Drew knocks on our door. I go out and they begin to wire me up, telling me to keep my earpiece plugged, my pants on because the device is on it, blah blah blah. Like I need people to remind me I have sensitive areas not for public viewing.

"Sorry about this morning." Drew says, like he's having a hard time getting it out. He sounds like he's choking. I bite back a laugh.

"It's all cool, dude." I shake my head, then go over to my guitar tech to have my instrument wired. The guys are shuffling out, and it seems like Ritchie needs a lot of coaxing to stay awake. But Jace, thankfully, looks sober enough to remember that he needs to sing for us tonight, although he still seems a little disgruntled. Drew tells us we're on in three. A local band is rocking it out on stage for opening act, and we watch the final song before the lights dim.

"What's our first song again?" Ritchie whispers to no one in particular before we step onstage.

* * *

Backstage after the show reeks of sweat and victory. It was a good show, with the ground almost shaking when the kids jumped up and down like an entity, and moshed like there was no tomorrow. I guess New York City had natural party oxygen.

"Did you see that girl take off her shirt? Wild, dude!" Ritchie seems more upbeat than he did an hour and a half ago. By the second set, he'd conquered his major migraine and picked up his old energy.

"Congratulations, Jace, by the way." I say, pulling my guitar over my head. "You did such a great job of not being a complete wasted ass tonight."

"No need for me to congratulate you, Victoria." He sniffs unhappily. "You're always a bitch to me."

This is funny. But it's true.

"Group hug!" Matt announces spontaneously. He reels us into his sticky, bare chest, and we groan. Sometimes Matt does stupid, pointless things like these. But he's probably the best dude we've got in this band, so we love him to pieces even if he's crazy.

"Okay, guys, great loving going on here. Now, move along, and rest well tonight. Big day at Hot Topic tomorrow. Chop, chop!" Drew claps at us, and I can see he's really trying to make up for his awful behavior this morning. He probably still feels bad that a kid three years his junior told him off at breakfast for his lousy attitude.

We file into the dressing room, and I call the bathroom again. No one contests this time - they all just strip off their sweaty clothes, and wipe their faces and torsos with towels. I duck into the bathroom before I see too much.

I'm wiping my smudged make-up off my face when it happens. The ground shakes uncontrollably, and I grab the edge of the sink to keep my balance. I don't want to be in the bathroom if this structure caves in, so, without finishing my clean-up, I pull open the door and run out, shaken.

"Did you guys feel that?" I gasp.

"Feel what?" Ritchie asks, but before I can answer, it happens again. This time, the entire dressing room is trembling before my eyes, and the ceiling lamp is swaying dangerously. I hope Ritchie knows this is what I mean, because I'm too busy trying not to pee my pants to tell him. But by the scared looks on their faces, I think the message is across.

Drew is trying to get us out of the dressing room, shouting things about how this isn't a prank and how we should leave the theatre now. We're bumping against each other, and against crew members who are bravely trying to save what possessions of ours that they can before another earthquake hits. We're stumbling to the door, but before Drew can open it, it swings towards us and he steps back into Jace.

Three kids are running into the dressing room uninvited. They look harassed, and practically run over Drew and Jace on their way in. Panting, they stare at us, and we stare back, completely confused. But we have no time to exchange words, because a horrible screeching sound rips through the parking lot outside.

And my worst nightmare attaches itself to the doorframe.

It's a woman, at least, for the most part. Her hair is wild and seems to be slithering around her head with some life of its own. A crazed look is in her blood-red eyes, and her lips are parted in a snarl, to bare inch long fangs. Her entire upper body is exposed, but, in all defense, it seems like her face is enough to distract you from that. And then comes the weird part.

The lower half of her body melts into one scaly tail, whipping around the ground. The shiny, metal-like surface is the sickest color of green, and the scales are slightly elevated, like some sort of strange, reptilian armor. The sharp nails dig into the wood of the frame, and her tongue lashes out, long and thin, and forked. I cannot help but stare shamelessly.

"Percccy Jacksssson," She hisses menacingly - literally, like a snake. I want to tell her there's no Percccy Jacksssson here in this room, but she's staring at one of the newcomers. Oddly enough, he is pale, but does not look afraid. And, even weirder, he's holding a pen.

Really? Are you going to write a will first before you die?

"Stay back!" He yells, and his voice quivers slightly. She simply laughs throatily, and slithers in.

"You helped desssstroy my beloved, my Typhon. For that, you musssst die."

The guy uncaps the pen, and I really believe that he's going to poke her eye out with the tip, but I'm proven wrong again. It grows in his grasp, and glows a bright gold. A sword, in this teenager's hands.

I won't be surprised if I really have peed my pants.

The weird monster thing cackles. "Ccccelesssstial Bronze isss no match for me, Jacksssson. Your ssskillssss are ussselesss againsssst me. Now, your time endssss."

Three things happen at once after this.

One, the snake-lady opens her mouth, and a huge jet of fire shoots out of her mouth.

Two, the aforementioned fire licks the pipes, and there's a large explosion of gas and heat in the backstage area.

And three, I fly across the air, land very painfully on my back, and black out completely.

* * *

Tell me what you think? : )


End file.
